


I Want To Scream But My Mouth Is Sewn Shut

by KyeAbove



Series: The Reinforcement Of Agony AU [93]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 20:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13395597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyeAbove/pseuds/KyeAbove
Summary: Striker is found by The Projectionist while hiding from the Ink Demon.





	I Want To Scream But My Mouth Is Sewn Shut

~Unknown~

* * *

 

The ink spat him out again, and it was as painful as it always was. Being torn apart, put back together, and kicked out like he was nothing.

He was...that man had called him Striker, thinking he must not hear. The man didn't call the others that looked sort of like him Striker, so it was clearly meant to be a name.

Striker wasn’t his name. It was…

WHAT WAS HIS NAME?

Why were his eyes different, one pie shaped like some, but one more like the Angel’s good eye? Why were his arms wrong? Why was his ankle broken. Was he being punished?

His frown tugged on the stitches keeping his proper mouth shut. He wanted to frown without feeling pain. He wanted to smile.

There was no smiling in this place.

Unless you were the the demon. 

The demon’s mournful howl was clear in the distance, so he left the area entirely.

There were few safe places from the demon, but they were just as dangerous. There was no hiding with the angel, unless she was feeling particularly nice. That was always last resort. The Prophet would have hid him, for a price, but the maniac hadn’t been around in a while.

The last safe place was Level 14, as long as The Projectionist wasn’t there. Sometimes The Projectionist traveled to other levels to make sure the other projectors ran even though few would ever use them.

He couldn’t place blame. Random numbers and equations would cross his mind and eyes, and sometimes when he had paper and a pencil, he’d write then down and do them with ease. He didn’t know why he could do them or why he would. He just _did_. It had to be that way with The Projectionist.

Their own lingering human minds crying out for help. Why couldn’t his cry his name?

Since he wasn’t willing to risk the angel when he was so freshly reborn, he headed for Level 14, hoping The Projectionist wasn’t there.

He found a nice corner, beside a Little Miracle Station. He wished he could enter those, but whatever Mister Dr-w...Drew had done to them kept things like him out. He’d seen that man and his newer companion enter them often, so he guessed it kept out anything not human.

Wasn’t _that_ a bitter reminder?

He must have passed out, because he awoke to light, and the resulting panic woke him more than anything. He opened both his eyes to see The Projectionist. He was going to die. He could never outrun The Projectionist.

But this time, The Projectionist seemed…non-threatening? Studying, almost. Maybe, really?

He whined, and The Projectionist backed away.

Why wasn’t he already dead? He shifted from his curled position, also shifting liquids from where they’d pooled. He pulled one of his hands across his face, and inspected it. His hand was coated with a mixture of running black ink, diluted by actual tears.

Had he been crying in his sleep, and The Projectionist taken pity?

He didn’t know The Projectionist had these kinds of feelings.

A moment later, The Projectionist reached down, carefully balancing the heavy projector, and picked him up. He didn’t struggle. Partly from fear. Partly from curiosity.

Did The Projectionist think, like he did, and used others to vent his frustrations, just like he did?

They studied each other, even though The Projectionist’s light blinded him.

He whined once more, and clacked the extra set of teeth on his head. The Projectionist's grip on him tightened, and he really thought then that he was wrong. That he was going to die again.

He didn’t expect the hug. The Projectionist held him, careful not to put any of the weight of the projector on him. Maybe it was too soon to trust, but he nuzzled into the hug. The Projectionist made a few pleasant clicks in response.

Whoever he was before, some man who had a life and a heart, he felt taken for granted now that he was valued.


End file.
